Jean Rabe & Martin Harry Greenberg

by Timeshares (v5)

“I’ll go,” Gina said quickly.

  “You bet you are,” Lucy smiled. “I’m making the cookies for you.”

  “You were making cookies anyway. I’m going to the store again out of the kindness of my heart.” Gina gave Lucy a cockeyed smile. It felt great to smirk at her sister. “You know, someday you’re going to have to learn take care of yourself, little sister.” Gina’s voice took on the familiar preaching tone she used so often with Lucy.

  “And someday you’ll have to learn to live a little, big sister,” Lucy finished in the also familiar singsong voice she used with Gina.

  Gina hugged Lucy long enough for Lucy to squirm out of her grasp and search her face. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

  “I am now,” Gina said.

  After the dough had been sampled and the cookies were baked, Lucy went back to work on her current painting project. Gina settled on the couch to watch her. Lucy’s art was influenced by the surrealists like Dali and Ernst; walls had ears, animals were hybrids of three or more species and an inanimate object or two, the colors were bright and distinct. This picture of a woman staring into a full-length mirror and seeing a monster was familiar to Gina—it had hung on her bedroom wall ever since Lucy’s death, half finished and full of potential—and now she would get to see Lucy add strokes that weren’t a part of the original. She wondered if the painting at home would reflect the changes when she got back. It might not even be on her wall at all. The idea excited Gina because it would mean that Lucy had been alive to sell it or give it to someone else.

  “You don’t have to stick around if you’ve got something else you’d rather do,” Lucy said as she mixed paint on her palette.

  “There’s no place I’d rather be,” Gina said.

  Lucy shrugged. “I can think of better things to do than watch paint dry, but okay.” She spoke like someone assured of her own immortality, or at least whose mortality was a distant, inconsequential concept. She dabbed at the canvas with a brush and a squiggly edge of the mirror frame appeared.

  “How do you do that?” Gina said.

  “Do what?”

  “Make something out of nothing.”

  “I dunno,” Lucy stood back and studied the new addition. “I try not to think about it too much.”

  Gina moved a stack of blank canvases onto the floor and stretched her legs. She pushed the sleeves of her black turtleneck above her elbows and rubbed her eyes. “Your paintings are so weird.”

  “I try not to think about that too much either.”

  “I mean, why does she see a monster in the mirror?”

  Another section of frame appeared beneath Lucy’s brush. “We all have monsters inside us sometimes.”

  “You don’t.” Gina leaned her head back and closed her eyes. Perhaps it was the comfort of being near her sister again that drained all the stress from her body. She listened to Lucy’s brush alternating between scraping the palette and swiping the canvas. The rhythm coupled with the warm apartment and a stomach full of fresh cookies lulled Gina to sleep.

  After a moment Gina jerked awake. Lucy wasn’t standing at the canvas and the room had darkened. She had to have been asleep longer than she’d thought— the mirror frame in the painting had been finished, its purple squiggles and black shading mocking her. Gina checked her wrist. Three hours had passed.

  “Lucy?” No answer. Panic welled in Gina’s chest. “You here?” The place felt empty, and she knew Lucy had left. She jumped off the couch and headed for the kitchen, hesitating when spots danced before her eyes. Great, now I get nauseous. A note in Lucy’s hurried scrawl lay next to the dirty mixing bowl. Morning, sleepyhead. Since you’re going to be here for dinner I’m going to go grab some supplies. Hope you’re okay with meatloaf. Be back in fifteen.

  The note had the time it had been written in the upper right-hand corner like their mother had taught them. Gina gasped and threw the slip of paper onto the counter as if she’d been burned. Lucy had written it two hours ago.

  Damnit, Lucy. She never kept a lot of food in the house, but it was worse when she was in the middle of a painting. Gina figured Lucy had gone hungry during the blizzard a few days before. Of course, Lucy wouldn’t have gone to the store if Gina hadn’t been there, probably choosing to snack on some dry cereal for dinner. Even worse, she never would have gone if Gina had been awake to stop her. Guilt pressed onto her chest. Gina only had a few hours to spend with her twin sister. Why did she have to waste them by sleeping? It didn’t matter. She grabbed the phone on the wall and dialed Lucy’s cell by memory.

  The phone rang in her ear several times before the voice mail picked up. No no no no no no no. The warnings she’d been given at Timeshares zipped through her mind, the ones about how time had a way of righting itself, that if you changed the past enough to influence great change in the future the universe would reset the correct course. Gina didn’t care about the “correct” course. She would not allow her sister to die, period. Gina grabbed her coat and ran from the apartment.

  Statistics say that most fatal accidents happen within a mile from home, and Lucy’s was no exception. The stream that had frozen her to death ran behind her apartment and through her neighborhood to join up with a bigger stream half a mile away. It was the small bridge over this juncture that always got treacherous in the winter.

  Gina ran down the street, dodging ice and hopping through the snow where residents hadn’t bothered to shovel. Soon her legs burned and cramps ripped through her side as her breath came in gasps. Gina ignored the pain. She could only think about getting to her sister.

  I shouldn’t have fallen asleep. It doesn’t make sense. The doctors at Timeshares had given her a litany of possible side effects, everything from vomiting to diarrhea to weird tastes to phantom smells, but none of them had mentioned anything about sleepiness or fatigue. Not once. Even so, she had made it a point to get extra sleep and take vitamins and hydrate well before the trip. Nothing was going to keep her from saving Lucy. And yet she had slept hard enough not to hear her sister leave. The universe righting itself.

  At last she ran up the steep embankment that led to the bridge. Her heart stopped as she crested the hill. The thin guardrail that separated the road from the ten foot drop to the water had been torn, the metal twisted and peeled away from the road.

  “Lucy! Oh, God, no, this isn’t happening, not again. Lucy! LUCY!” Gina sprinted to the bridge, raising her knees high to get through the snowdrifts. Once on the road, her feet caught ice and lost traction. She fell chest-first onto the pavement, knocking all the wind from her lungs. Her eyes watered and her body convulsed as her diaphragm tried to work. Through the blurriness in her vision, she saw Lucy’s car sitting nose- first in the stream. Not enough water to fill a car or carry it away, but enough to drown or freeze a person.

  Gina didn’t hesitate. She flung herself down the embankment and into the stream. Water filled her shoes as chunks of ice banged against her knees. Once she got to the car, Gina saw Lucy turn her head to look at her. She’s alive.

  “Geenie,” Lucy said, calling her by their childhood nickname.

  “I’m going to get you out of here,” Gina said as she tried to wrench the car door open.

  “It’s stuck,” Lucy said, her voice soft and weak. “I’m so tired, Geenie. So tired.” She rolled her head back and closed her eyes.

  Gina pounded on the car window. “Stay awake,” she yelled. “It’s important that you stay awake.” Her legs were numb from the freezing water. She stumbled over the rocky stream bottom as she walked around and tried the passenger door. She leaned back and used her body weight to leverage the door open, but the impact had jammed this side, too. Gina looked into the car. Lucy’s legs were submerged, the contents of her purse floating around her. A packet of soup mix floated by the dashboard. She’d been on her way back from the store, just like last time.

  “Did you call nine one one?” Gina said as she pounded on the window. “Lucy! Lucy, wake up! Did you call nine one one yet?�
�

  Lucy’s eyes rolled in her head as she shrugged. “Cell’s wet. No good.” She reclosed her eyes.

  Just like last time. “Stay awake!” Gina demanded as she pounded on the door with both fists. After Lucy had died, she’d studied hypothermia and knew if the victim fell asleep, it was all over. She ran over to the driver’s side, her body cramping from the cold. If she didn’t get out of the water soon, she’d be in danger, too. “Lucy!” Gina cocked her arm across her body. She summoned all her strength and tried to smash the window, hitting it with the back of her arm again and again.

  Lucy’s eyes fluttered as she touched the window. “I’m glad you came to see me,” she said. “I’m glad you’re with me at the end.”

  “Don’t talk like that,” Gina said, a hysterical edge to her voice. She touched the window by Lucy’s hand and imagined she could feel her twin’s fingers. “We’re going to get you out of here.”

  “I’m going to paint heaven,” Lucy said.

  “No you’re not, not yet,” Gina climbed onto the hood of the car, slipping on the wet metal. She landed on her left hip and elbow, but her body was so numb from the cold that she didn’t feel any pain. She stood on the hood and clutched the slippery roof as best she could. “You are not leaving me, Lucy, you’re not.” Gina kicked the windshield with her right foot, concentrating most of the force on her heel. Her numb legs and the icy hood made it hard to get enough force, and she kept losing her balance. Finally she lay on her back and kicked at the windshield with both feet. Water lapped at the top of her scalp as she kicked again and again.

  A crack formed beneath her feet as blue lights swirled around her. She tasted chocolate chip cookies and bile as the nausea spiked in her stomach. No. She glanced at her watch. Her time was up. Timeshares was pulling her back. “Not yet!” she yelled, hoping someone in the control room would hear her. “Lucy! No!”

  Lucy didn’t respond as her fingers slipped away from the glass.

  “Lucy!” Gina yelled as flashes of light enveloped her. She closed her eyes against the glare and opened them to find herself lying on the floor of a sterile examination room. Two young men helped her to her feet and stripped off her wet clothes as another wrapped her in a warming blanket. She looked around the room. She was back at Timeshares.

  “I’ve got to go back,” Gina said.

  “Your time is up, ma’am,” one of the men said in a matter-of-fact tone. He sounded like he’d said that sentence a hundred times before.

  Gina shivered and her teeth chattered. She felt as though she would never be warm again. Exhaustion overwhelmed her, and she wondered if it was from the traveling or hypothermia. Probably both.

  Rolf Jacobsen, the owner of Timeshares, walked through the door. “I see you got a little wet, Miss Warner.”

  She struggled to keep her eyes open as one of the men wrapped another blanket around her. “You’re quick on the uptake,” she mumbled.

  Rolf gave her a thin smile. “I know what you tried to do.”

  “What are you talking about?” Gina said as she snapped her head up.

  “Rest assured, Miss Warner, that you won’t have another opportunity to save Lucy. Consider yourself blacklisted.”

  Gina stared at Jacobsen’s back as he walked away. She felt arms guide her into a prone position and slip a pillow beneath her head. There has to be a way, she thought as sleep overcame her.

  The next day Gina woke in her own bed. She didn’t remember how she’d gotten there, but figured that Jacobsen had had some of his goons bring her home. Lucy’s painting hung on the wall opposite her bed, except now the mirror in the picture sported a new purple frame. She slid from underneath the covers and winced. Her body ached everywhere and her skin burned from mild frost-bite. She walked across the bedroom on bruised feet and looked at the painting. A fine layer of dust covered the surface.

  Gina felt ashamed. Why hadn’t she taken better care of Lucy’s art? Had she become that complacent about Lucy’s death? Pressing her lips into a line, she lifted the canvas from its nail. As she gently brushed the dust away with an old t-shirt, a folded piece of notebook paper tumbled from behind it.

  Gina inspected the back. There was a little flap in the corner that the paper must have been tucked into. How had she not noticed that before?

  Too stunned after Lucy died to see it, I guess.

  She gently propped the canvas against her dresser and unfolded the paper. Lucy’s handwriting leaped from the page.

  Gina,

  Somehow you left a voice mail on my cell phone at the same time you were sleeping on my couch. The message said that you’ve just gotten to your hotel in L.A. and that the flight was fine. And yet you lay sleeping on my couch. So I thought about that.

  You came to the apartment with eggs.

  You cried when you saw me.

  You volunteered to go to the store when I needed more stuff.

  As I watch you sleep on my couch I notice a few freckles and a few wrinkles you didn’t have yesterday. Plus you’ve started to go gray. You’re older. Well, that doesn’t surprise me, you are the older sister. But it all adds up. The you on my couch really is older.

  My guess is you saved enough money to buy a trip from Timeshares. I can only think of one reason you would do that.

  I’m going to the store. If I’m meant to see you again, I will.

  I love you.

  Lucy

  Gina sobbed as tears ran down her face. She touched her fingertips to the words. Lucy had known what Gina had been there to do. Yet she’d left the house anyway. But not before writing a note and hiding it someplace where she knew Gina would someday find it.

  Sadness filled Gina’s heart as she hung the picture. Even so, she knew she wouldn’t try to save Lucy again. She missed her sister and always would, but the emptiness that she had felt for five years was gone.

  But I’m Not the Only One

  Chris Pierson

  Chris Pierson has written eight novels set in the Dragonlance world, most recently the Taladas trilogy, as well as numerous short stories in assorted anthologies, Terribly Twisted Tales and Gamer Fantastic being the latest. He works as a senior world designer and resident Tolkien freak for The Lord of the Rings Online at Turbine Games. Born in Canada, Chris has lived in the Boston area long enough to become a Red Sox fan but not long enough to develop the accent. He currently lives in Jamaica Plain, Massachusetts, with his wife, Rebekah, and Chloe, the most awesomest baby girl in the world.

  It’s warm for December in New York: weather like two months before. People have been talking about it all day. Smiling at each other, strange for a city that can be so mean, particularly as winter is beginning to bare its teeth. Even at night, people are out without their coats, laughing as they walk, not caring about any of the trouble in their city and the world.

  It feels safe.

  They come out of the studio together, no longer young but still just as in love as when they first met. It’s been a productive evening, polishing up a new song, one of hers. A good day. The new album, the comeback, is selling well, barely a month old, and there’s still more new work to be done. After the time he’s taken off, he feels more creative, more invigorated than he has since he and the lads called it quits. Ten years gone. A hard decade in a lot of ways, but things are better now than they’ve been in a long time.

  He puts his arm around her as they walk back to the limo, the driver holding open the door, all of them smiling, the sky starry-clear and the breeze warm.

  “Where do you want to eat?” she asks.

  He shakes his head. “It’s late. Let’s go home.”

  She nods, and they get into the limo. The driver pulls out, turns the corner, and heads up Sixth Avenue to the Upper West Side. Central Park slides by on the right, couples walking together, savoring this unexpected jewel of late summer in the dying days of fall. She hugs his arm and leans close, her head on his shoulder. He kisses her hair, loving the way she smells, the weight of her against him.


  He leans forward as they stop at a red at 71st Street. “You can let us out at the curb up ahead,” he says. “We’ll walk from there.”

  The driver glances back. “Are you sure, sir? It’s no trouble for me to pull into the courtyard.”

  “Don’t bother. It’s a beautiful night.”

  Shrugging, the driver pulls over outside the Dakota, near the iron-gated archway of the grand old building. Home. She kisses him, and they get out, head toward the building. He says hello to José, the doorman, who has opened the limo door.

  “Lovely evening, sir,” José replies.

  She goes through the archway first, and someone calls out to her from the shadows, says hello. She walks by, not breaking pace, not answering, and for a moment he has a strange feeling, a premonition maybe, but it’s gone just as fast. He follows her into the darkness, toward the lobby. Sean’s upstairs, in bed by now—the boy’s five, and it’s almost eleven at night—and he just wants to see his beautiful boy, wants to watch him sleep. That and make love with his wife, of course.

  Out of the corner of his eye, he sees someone in the shadows, the same one who called out to her. The face is familiar, and he knows where from. He signed the new album for this man earlier that evening, when they left for the Record Plant. There’d been several autograph-seekers and at least one photographer, but this one stood out in his memory. He got that cold feeling again, but made himself keep going toward the front door, Jay the security guy waiting inside to buzz them in.

  The man in the shadows calls his name.

  Cold all over now, he begins to turn.

  Something hits him hard from behind. He hears two quick pops—some part of his brain tells him it is gunfire, but it doesn’t sound nearly as loud as he’d imagined—and glass breaking. She whips around, screaming. José is yelling too, and then he’s on the ground, and the breath’s knocked out of him and he can’t draw another, and there’s a lot of pain.